


Your Terrorists Are Our Freedom Fighters

by procellous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, Kíli's a trans girl sorry not sorry, Prejudice, Racism, Rebel Leader Thorin, Trans Female Character, Violence, international politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:09:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To most of the world, the infamous group who call themselves id-Durinul are little more than terrorists, creating anarchy in an already tumultuous region. </p><p>To Fíli and Kíli Víliul, sent thousands of miles away in hopes of their safety, they are family. </p><p>And to Bilbo Baggins, they are about to change everything he thought he knew about the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> Hover over Khuzdul words to see the translations.
> 
> Every horizontal line is a time skip; by end of the chapter we've covered about twenty years.

“Ibsinati!" Thorin shouted above the cacophony of metal twisting out of shape under the assault. “Ibsinati! Mahishmiri naddanmêzu!”

Around him, terrified mothers covered their children’s faces in their headscarves as they fled from the oncoming flame. This shouldn’t be happening. This was never supposed to happen. Not like this, never like this. 

Not with fire licking at the sky as his people fled around him. Not with people screaming and dying around him. Not with children, little more than babes-in-arms, choking on poison gas. 

Dís was leading the way, her two young sons with her. Kíli was strapped to her back, face covered by a large rag, Fíli clutching her loose pants, mouth and nose covered. She was armed, her trusty AK-47 in one hand and spare ammunition wrapped around her chest and waist and snarl firmly in place as she glared at the bushes as though they held soldiers, ready to defend the fleeing khazâd from the enemy. Dwalin was rallying the fighters, but it wasn’t going to be enough. No bullets would pierce through the armor of the tanks and planes—most of the soldiers wore bulletproof armor as well, and it was just effective enough that it was being referred to as ’azumuslukh. Their bullets all but bounced off. It would possibly be more effective if they had _swords_ , but they had none. Besides, anyone foolish enough to bring a sword to a gunfight deserved their fate. 

A few miles away, the enemy soldiers streamed out of their hiding places and into the gunfire of their warriors. Too few of them fell, and Thorin opened fire from his vantage point at their commanders. A few of them went after the unarmed refugees, and received bullets in exchange from the guards. Too little, too ineffective. The town was unrecognizable after the assaults from their bombers and too many innocents lay dead or dying in the streets. 

Thorin watched in disgust as the enemy pulled back and dark shapes began flying through the air. 

“Ihlitti khusgu!” he shouted, hearing Dwalin order the same as he jumped from the tipped car he had been standing on to press himself against the metal. His people covered themselves in what little shelter they could find in the ruins—the roof of a destroyed car, a precarious concrete slab—as the bombs landed, spraying shrapnel everywhere. He could hear the screams of those who hadn’t gotten to shelter fast enough, and winced in sympathy. 

Once the sky was clear of bombs, he climbed back on the car and raised his gun in the air like a flag.

“DU BEKÂR!” he called. “DU BEKÂR!” 

“BARUK KHAZÂD!” Dwalin shouted in reply. “KHAZÂD AI-MENÛ!”

The responding roar from their weary warriors was worth it. They fought with new strength, raising their rifles and facing the enemy. 

_Mahal shamura mâ,_ he prayed silently. 

It wasn’t nearly enough. The bullet ripped through his left shoulder, and he bit back a cry of pain, raising his rifle and returning the favor, only with more accuracy. The soldier was dead before he hit the ground. 

His shoulder was bleeding, but the wound was a clean one and would heal, with enough time. 

The survivors were few, when the battle was over and the soldiers had left. Dís, her sons, and a handful of refugees had escaped, and he hoped they could get somewhere safe soon. Most of the warriors were dead. The few who had survived were wounded and exhausted. 

“Thorin,” Dwalin said, “Kulhu khidu?”

He stared at Dwalin, blood dripping into his eyes from a cut on his forehead he hadn’t realized he had, then swept his gaze across the town-turned-battlefield. “Khidu? Khidu ammâ mazahhiri.”

Dwalin nodded, and left him to find a medic for his shoulder. The screams of the wounded filled his ears, mixing with the memories of the cacophony of battle to form a soundtrack of pain. Thorin watched in numb horror as the healers worked on screaming warriors, as they closed the eyes of the dead. Not as many as there had been a few years ago, but still too many. Only a few years ago? It felt like a lifetime since he had watched his brother’s body burn and revenge raged in his heart that Frerin (twelve-nearly-thirteen, but really only twelve, how had they ever put a gun into those small hands and told him to kill?) and so many others could not be laid to rest like they deserved. Far too many. 

The old, familiar rage burned in his heart once more. Too many were dead. It was unacceptable. Too many were dead, and for what? For a fool’s hope of independence. For the dream of his grandfather and father; that Erebor could rise again, a home for Khazâd worldwide. For their scattered peoples, a symbol of hope. It had been his dream as well—it was still his dream. 

For Fíli and Kíli, for Dís. For their children and their refugees. They had to reclaim their homeland.

They had to. 

* * *

Dís watched her babies sleep from the doorway. Fíli’s nightmares had ceased, praise Mahal: he was far too young to be dreaming of death. He was sleeping curled around his little sister; Kíli clung to his shirt like a lifeline. Her babies, her darling little children—though they weren’t babies anymore, as Fíli was so fond of reminding her. Or at least, _Fíli_ wasn’t a baby anymore, _Kíli_ hadn’t complained yet.

Two years ago, they had fled a burning town with bullets raining down from the sky. Two years ago, they had run from country to country until they got here. Freedom, however limited. Safety, in theory.

They had been granted asylum. She had to remember to be grateful for that. No matter what, they were here to stay—at least until Thorin could reclaim their futures and their homelands. There were too many people on the streets here who were quick to label their small family undesirables. Too many people who crossed to the other side of the street as soon as they saw her headscarf. Fíli would be starting school soon, and she could only hope nothing bad would happen. At least once Kíli started school, Fíli would be there, and the two were inseparable. 

Kíli and Fíli were half-buried under the stuffed animals both refused to sleep without. In the hand that wasn’t fisted in Fíli’s shirt, Kíli clutched the small cloth doll Dís had gotten her the previous year. She smiled at the memory of Kíli, barely two, trying to tie her doll’s hair back in a small scarf. Kíli had ended up bringing the doll out, yarn hair in disarray, asking her to give her a scarf _“like you wear, Ama’!”_

Quietly, she shut the door of the sleeping children’s room, and went to bed herself. 

* * *

“Leave my sister alone!” Fíli shouted as he shoved the boy back. Kíli sniffled and clung to him, hiding her face in the back of his shirt. Her headscarf had come untied from its usual tight wrappings, and there was a tear on one side, revealing her wavy dark hair.

“Hey look, the little terrorist has a protector. Are you a terrorist too, Bin Laden?”

“Shut up!” Fíli grit out. “We’re not terrorists!”

“Then why d’you look like you are, huh?”

“Fíli, don’t worry about it—” Kíli said between sniffles. “Let’s just go home.”

“Aww, the little terrorist’s _scared_.”

With a wordless cry of rage, Fíli lept on the boy, punching him him in the face. 

“Fíli!” Kíli screamed. “Don’t, you’ll get in trouble!”

“Don’t—talk—to—my—sister—like—that!” Fíli snarled as his hits landed. Finally Kíli managed to pull him off, the boy’s face bloody and his nose at a strange angle. He was practically unrecognizable.

“You didn’t need to do that for me.”

“Yeah, I did. You’re my little sister, nobody’s messing with you except me.”

“It’s _okay,_ Fee, I’m used to it.” She tried to smile. Fíli felt his heart sink down to around his toes. This had happened enough that Kíli was used to being treated like that. “Oh…you’re hurt.

It was true, his knuckles were bleeding. 

“We should go home, Fee.”

“Yeah, you’re right. C’mon.”

The two left the schoolyard and began to walk home, shouldering their backpacks. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I had to, Kee, you’re my little sister.”

“I would have been fine. It’s not like they ever do anything other than say stuff. It’s just words.”

“It’s not just words if it makes you cry.”

“’S not a big deal, Fee. They just want attention. If I ignore them they’ll go away.”

“Kíli, listen to me. Anyone says stuff like that about you? That you’re a terrorist or whatever? It’s _not okay._ They’re bullying you, Kee. And they won’t stop if you ignore them. You gotta talk to the teachers.” Kíli sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. 

“I did, but Ms. Reeves just said that if I ignore them they’ll go away. And Ms. Wright said that I just gotta stand up for myself. Can we go home now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go home. Amad’ll know what to do.”

When they got home, Dís was in the kitchen, speaking in measured and heavily-accented English over the phone.

“Fíli, have you been fighting again?” she said when she was done. She glanced at his bloody knuckles and sighed. “Kíli, go work on your homework. I’ll call you down for dinner.”

“Yes, Amad,” Kíli muttered, and vanished.

“Now then. Why can’t you hold onto your temper?”

“Amad, they were bullying Kíli! I couldn’t just _let_ them!”

“Fíli Víliul, ihbirdê! You cannot fight Kíli’s battles for her, and you _cannot_ afford to be seen as violent. They call us terrorists already, beating people up only confirms their prejudices! You broke a boy’s nose today, and don’t think I’ve forgotten your other fights.”

Fíli went silent for a long time, clenching his bloody fists. “It’s not fair!” he finally exploded. “It’s not fair, they can do whatever they want, they can push us around and call us terrorists and rip Kíli’s scarf but as soon as we fight back—”

“They ripped Kíli’s scarf?” Dís asked, voice suddenly hard and cold.

Fíli nodded. “She didn’t say anything, but there was a tear on one side. Looked like someone had grabbed it.”

“I’ll handle the bullies. Go work on your homework. And don’t give me that look, if you don’t do your homework you won’t pass.”

“Not like passing’s all that great anyway.”

“Do you _want_ to repeat a grade?”

“It doesn’t matter, because I’m going back to Erebor to help Uncle Thorin—”

“You will be going there _over my dead body_ , Fíli!”

“It’s my choice!”

“And how are you going to get there? You’ve never been—”

“And whose fault is that?”

“You don’t know what it’s like there! It is _Hell_ , and you will never be going there!”

“Yes I will, and you can’t stop me!”

“Oh yes I can!”

“And what about when I turn eighteen? What then?”

“If you haven’t graduated high school, you’ll have a hard time getting a job to pay for the plane tickets.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to go?”

“I want the best for you and Kíli. We’ve had this argument before. Just do your homework, Fíli.”

“Fine!” Fíli stormed off, and slammed the door of his room behind him. 

* * *

“I am putting together a team,” Thorin said. “An elite force to deal a decisive blow to General Bolg and President-for-Life D. B. Smaug.” His tone made it abundantly clear what he thought of those two and their titles. 

“It is lucky that we found each other, then, as I wish for them to be dealt with as much as you.” The man smiled, and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of his grey suit as he stood. “I imagine we could become allies, Mister Thrainul.”

“ _Uzbad_ Thrainul, Mister Grey. But yes, perhaps we could be…allies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about this world that may or may not be clear: the dwarves are not a separate species the way they are in Middle-Earth, here they're an ethnic group that is (intentionally) coded to read as Arabic.


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo Baggins was a perfectly normal and average man. He had a perfectly respectable job at the local bookshop, Bag End, and caused no trouble. He had gone to the local school until he graduated high school at age eighteen with perfectly normal grades, and won a small scholarship to a nearby college before settling down and taking over his father’s bookshop and sinking into respectable unimportance. Yes, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was perfectly normal, and like all Baggins before him, would be having no part in any adventures.

“So good day, Mister, ah—what _did_ you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” the man said calmly. “But I am Gandalf! Gandalf T. Grey.”

“Yes, well, good day, Mister Grey.”

“Is it? Yes, I suppose it is. Well, that’s settled, I shall return…oh, tomorrow, I should think. Or perhaps Wednesday, at around tea-time.”

“Yes, do come over for tea,” Bilbo said hurriedly. “Yes, tea Wednesday. Excellent. I shall see you then, Mister Grey.”

“Oh, do call me Gandalf. Farewell then, Mister Baggins.” The man left, and Bilbo shut the door slightly more forcefully than one ought after entertaining guests.

* * *

Wednesday came, as Wednesdays inevitably do, though Bilbo had forgotten all about his strange encounter with Gandalf two days prior, and their agreement that Gandalf should come over for tea that day.

It was exactly four in the afternoon—Bilbo had just put the kettle on—when a knock came at the door. Suddenly he remembered his conversation with Gandalf, and rushed to the door, opening it to find not Gandalf but a dark skinned man, built with remarkable similarity to a brick wall, and a scared face. He bore tattoos on his knuckles and forehead and doubtless across the rest of his body, covered by his worn and patched clothes.

“Er…good day?” Bilbo tried.

“Dwalin Fundinul, at your service,” he replied, accent thick in his gruff voice. “I was told there’d be tea?”

“Ah yes, yes, do come in. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting guests?” He hadn’t intended for that to be a question. Dwalin shrugged.

The bell rang again, and Bilbo rushed to answer it.

Standing in the doorway was an older man, hair gone completely white in contrast with his dark skin.

“Balin Fundinul, at your service!” he declared cheerfully. His accent was slightly less noticeable than Dwalin’s, and he looked considerably less war-torn, though he bore several scars. He wore nicer clothes as well.

“Ah, Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

“And look, Dwalin’s already here!”

“Nadadé!” Dwalin said, and they grasped each other’s shoulders and brought their heads together with an almighty _crack!_

The kettle whistled, and Bilbo hurriedly began to make the tea.

The doorbell rang again, and then a sharp knock sounded.

“Ah, that’d be Víli’s lot! Go get the door, would you?” Balin said.

Standing in the doorway was a pair in matching blue hoodies, virtually identical save for that one was slightly shorter than the other, and the other wore a headscarf. They wore tattered blue jeans and fingerless gloves that looked like they’d seen better days.

“Fíli, at your service,” said one, “And Kíli!” said the other, and both bowed.

“You must be Mister Boggins!” said Kíli, grinning.

“No, no, you can’t come in, you’ve come to the wrong house.”

“What? Has it been cancelled?”

“No-one told us,” Fíli added.

“Cance—no, nothing’s been _cancelled._ ”

“That’s a relief!” Kíli exclaimed. “Can we come in?”

“Ah, I mean, yes, of course.” In the face of Kíli’s cheerful enthusiasm, Bilbo’s resolve crumbled.

“Excellent, Balin and Dwalin are already here!” Fíli said.

Bilbo found himself pushed away by the enthusiastic greetings in a language he didn’t understand.

“I swear, Kíli, you’ve gotten taller,” Balin remarked—Kíli was about six inches taller than Balin—and she laughed.

“You saw me last two days ago, how could I have gotten taller?”

“Fíli, lad! It’s good to see you again.” Dwalin and Fíli knocked foreheads, grinning wildly. “How was the flight?”

“Completely awful, but are they ever anything else?”

“Ins Mahal taglibi luknu.”

They had all settled down for tea when there came yet another knock on the door. Bilbo rushed off to answer it, and found five more people on his doorstep—Dori, Nori, Ori, Óin, and Glóin—and a more mismatched group Bilbo had never seen. Dori’s hair was tied back under a scarf like Kíli’s, Nori was a shifty-looking redhead, Ori looked like he was younger than Fíli and Kíli, Óin was older than Balin and half-deaf, and Glóin's hair was fiery red, even more than Nori's.

Bilbo had to drag in chairs from several other rooms so that there would be enough for everybody, and by the time he did that, there was yet another knock at the door. He opened it, now quite annoyed, and the four at the door fell in, one on top of the other. Gandalf stood behind them, leaning on his cane and looking generally amused.

“Now that is very rude, my dear Bilbo, to leave guests standing on the front doorstep and then jerk open the door. But never mind that. May I introduce Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and most especially Thorin Thrainul!”

The four got to their feet, a tad unsteadily, and brushed themselves off. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur all went further inside, where a party seemed to be beginning to take shape, while Thorin circled around Bilbo. The longer he circled, the more uncomfortable Bilbo felt: Thorin seemed to be judging him.

“So,” Thorin said at last. “ _This_ is to be our burglar? When you said you had someone in mind, Gandalf, I admit I was not expecting this. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

“I beg your pardon, I am _not_ a burglar!”

“Then we are at the wrong house. Gandalf, I thought you said you would lead us to the place?”

“I did and I have. Bilbo Baggins may not yet realize he is a burglar, but a burglar he is. Or will be, at any rate.”

“Irak’adad!” Kíli cried, racing up to him. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“Kíli!” Thorin’s face seemed to split in half with his smile. “I hope I’m not late.”

“Lu’! Jalakanana gangzadkh.”

“"’Uglakh.” The two went further inside, Fíli pouncing on Thorin as soon as he saw who it was.

“Gandalf, a word?” Bilbo hissed, grabbing the man’s arm.

“Certainly. There, now you’ve had a word. Here, have some more. In fact, have precisely sixteen.” The man smiled pleasantly.

“I agreed to have tea with you, not with a dozen—a dozen _terrorists_.”

“Thirteen, actually, and I assure you, they are not terrorists.”

“Thorin Thrainul is the leader of id-Durinul, which is a _terrorist organization_ , what are they doing in my house?”

“Id-Durinul is a group of rebels, fighting for their freedom and the freedom of their homeland. They are quite noble and their cause is just. They have only been labelled terrorists by their opponents.”

“You haven’t answered my question—what are they doing _in my house_?”

“At the moment, I believe most of them are enjoying the first actual meal they’ve had in months.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Do I? Let’s pretend I don’t. What did you mean?”

“Why did you bring them here, Gandalf?”

“My dear Bilbo. I brought them here because I remember a little boy who was always imagining great adventures.”

“That was years ago!”

“Evidently. You’ve changed, Bilbo Baggins, and not all for the better. The world is not in your books and maps. It is out there.”

“I can’t just go running off into the blue after a terrorist group—say what you will, but I rather like _not_ breaking the law.”

“Even if it is an unjust law?”

Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, but found he had no words.

“Go speak to them. I think you’ll find that you have more to learn than you might think.”

When Bilbo entered the room, he found that the guests were gathered in a circle—some of them had brought out instruments: Fíli and Kíli each had violins, Thorin had a harp, and Balin had taken a seat at his mother’s old piano. (Bilbo had never learned to play it, and it sat against the wall, untouched, kept more for sentiment than any actual use.) Bifur and Bofur each held dulcimers, and Bombur had a drum.

On the floor in the middle of the circle was a small pile of food, sitting on some of Bilbo’s platters. When he glanced at the clock, he realized that it was nearly dinnertime—two hours had passed without him realizing it.

Thorin struck a note on his harp, and as if by magic the music began all at once.

And then they began to sing; first one then another, until all thirteen were singing—whether in deep rumbly voices or in high soaring tones.

_ Ô, 'azgu malasul 'abad nibzurul  
Iskhira narid u marub nadadê  
Ra muneb id-manl taslami ya 'urs ra shar  
Ishira ruk dashshat Durinul_

_ Nî tada nad ni 'urs, gajij nâmhari sullu  _  
_Mahtasakhi harûs tabidi uzdar, ni id-lomil._  
 _Igli 'adad, ô, inshirab ungat ra zamamhili_  
 _Mahtasakhi harûs tamahharîn, id-'abadirak_

_ Ra nî muneb amradi 'ala lomil, muneb nâmradi sullu _  
_Imhumun marân,khama nutut anrât_  
 _Igli 'adad, ô, irmish ins zamamhili_  
 _Mahtasakhi harûs tamahharîn, id-'abadirak_

_ Aslâkh tanakhi ai-manl  _  
_Khidu asakhi 'urs, ni 'abad._  
 _Asakhi 'urs, tamhari 'd-zarâs_  
 _Ra asakhi 'urs, tamtami 'd-marâb_  
 _Asakhi 'urs, damâm ni 'b-bahd_  
 _Ra adjini tada zasaziliki e_

_ Ô, muneb kanâgê taslinîn gajij, amahhili ya  _  
_Makhafdûn ni 'abad-dûm, biramathhiri ruk ungat du 'd-urs._  
 _Igli 'adad, ô, ikhlit ra zamamhili_  
 _Mahtasakhi harûs tamahharîn, id-'abadirak_

_ Aslâkh tanakhi ai-manl  _  
_Khidu asakhi 'urs, ni 'abad._  
 _Asakhi 'urs, tamhari 'd-zarâs_  
 _Ra asakhi 'urs, tamtami 'd-marâb_  
 _Asakhi 'urs, damâm ni 'b-bahd_  
 _Ra adjini tada zasaziliki e_

_ Ra nî lomil tamhari, akhsigabi azâgê  _  
_Khama nî aznân tanniki, gajij nadadê zatamradîn_  
 _Ra ins manl taslini zadahu, jalatathnibini 'ala itnîn azsâlul_  
 _Ra ya tada askâd ai-shamal, akliti kanâgê tarkhashîn_

_ Asakhi 'urs, ni 'abbad. _  
_Asakhi 'urs, tamhari 'd-zarâs_  
 _Asakhi 'urs, tamtami 'd-marâb_  
 _Asakhi 'urs, damâm ni 'b-bahd_

_ Asakhi 'urs (ô, saktibi masakhi gabilitnîn tamhari) ’urs  _  
_Ra asakhi 'urs (akhuf id-arâs ai-fallê) ’urs_  
 _Ra asakhi 'urs ('urs) ’urs_  
 _Ra asakhi 'urs tamahharîn, id-'abadirak_

As they sang, Bilbo felt a great longing surge through him, a homesickness for a place he’d never been. When the song came to an end, the instruments were put away and all of them began eating.

“Join us, Bilbo!” Kíli said, waving him over. “You must be hungry; here!” She passed him a plate full of food.

“That song you were signing—what was it?”

“We call it ‘Ra Asakhi ’Urs;’ in English it’d be ‘I See Fire.’ It’s about, you know, our homeland. Erebor. And what happened to it.”

“What happened to it?”

“Smaug happened. Uncle knows the story better than me, I wasn’t even born yet when we lost Erebor. But Smaug came from the North with an army, and leading the army was General Azog. They overcame our defenses, and drove us from our homes. We fled, and most of us resettled in small towns in the area.”

“Didn’t you have allies? Did nobody help you?”

“We had allies,” Thorin broke in. “Allies like Thranduil. As we fled our burning homes, he came with an army—we thought he would be helping us. But he turned away, and no help came from him that day or any other.”

“But that’s horrible!”

“Yeah, it is.” Kíli said. “And we’ve been fighting ever since to reclaim Erebor.”

“Surely there is a better way than violence?”

“You mean peaceful protests? We tried non-violent methods. But those only work if your opponent has a conscience. Smaug has none.” Kíli looked down, light-hearted mood gone, and Bilbo was struck by how young she was.

“You’re so young…you, and Fíli, and Ori.”

Kíli laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I assure you, Bilbo Baggins, you are the only one who cares. You know how I said Smaug has no conscience? Have you ever heard of Ered Luin?”

“No?”

“It was a town full of peaceful civilians, including my mother and father. Fíli and I—I was about a year old when it was destroyed, Fíli was three. Smaug bombed it, all because he had a suspicion that id-Durinul was there. He was right, but he still—the town was completely destroyed. He gassed everyone with tear gas, and ordered the soldiers to shoot at the fleeing civilians. Mostly mothers with their children. Amad was lucky to get Fíli and I both out alive. Sigin-adad, my grandfather, Thorin’s father, lead a band—including my father—to try to bring down Smaug in revenge, but we haven’t been able to contact them.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Fíli and I were lucky, actually, we grew up away from the fighting. But Ori? He grew up in the thick of it. Trust me, you are the only person involved that thinks we’re young.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m the youngest; nineteen.”

Around them, the piles of food began to empty. When the last piece of fruit was claimed by Bombur, Thorin stood and cleared his throat.

“My kin,” he began. “My friends. We are gathered together in the home of Bilbo Baggins as our first point of travel. Tomorrow we begin our journey to Smaug’s lair. I cannot say how many of us will return, or if we will return at all. Mr. Baggins has been chosen by Gandalf to be the fourteenth member of the party; the Company’s Burglar. Mister Baggins, will you join us?”

“What?”

“Will you join us?” Thorin repeated. “Balin has a contract, if you want to sign one.”

“Ah—let me see the contract, please?”

“Certainly!” Balin replied, and handed him a much-folded piece of paper. Bilbo unfolded it, gaping at the length.

“You cannot be serious,” he said as he read through it. “ _Funeral arrangements?_ ”

“We are, I assure you, very serious,” Thorin said.

“And if you were to die,” Kíli added, “You’d want to know your body was in good hands, right?” He stared at her. Just a few minutes ago, Kíli had been telling him about how her grandfather and father went missing on a similar mission. How could she be so flippant about this?

“Oh dear,” he said, and collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I See Fire belongs to Ed Sheeran, the translation was done by the Dwarrow Scholar, you can find it here:  
> https://www.dropbox.com/s/f9dyshfbmp2d24a/The%20Dwarrow%20Scholar%20-%20Extra%20-%20I%20see%20fire%20%28Ed%20Sheeran%29%20-%20Neo-Khuzdul%20Translation.pdf?dl=0

**Author's Note:**

> A note about this world that may or may not be clear: the dwarves are not a separate species the way they are in Middle-Earth, here they're an ethnic group that is (intentionally) coded to read as Arabic.


End file.
